


Don't You Love Me Now?

by caelystrae



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Aging, Body Worship, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 11:25:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16304267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caelystrae/pseuds/caelystrae
Summary: When she looks down to meet Angela’s eyes, one leg moving to hook over her lover’s shoulder, she does so over the same body which survived the Omnic Crisis, which bore a child, which once was unmarked, unmarred, but thoroughly untested.  Now, despite the shifting geography of her form, new marks and rolls appearing over time, she knows her body better than she did when she was younger, is far more at peace with who she is.Or,Angela may be getting older, but Ana realizes that she herself is just plain gettingold, and isn't quite sure how to feel about it.





	Don't You Love Me Now?

**Author's Note:**

> after a year of abandoning this account im back from the dead for "let ana fuck week" alksdjfakldsfa im just lucky i remembered my dn/password
> 
> todays prompt was old/young which i like... tbh filled with my only other fic on this acct, along w two fics on my other acct (shadow and scars) but u know. i gotta let ana fuck. but privately on here bc im planning on posting some kinks that i wouldnt to my main. chaotically horny

Aging was something that snuck up on Ana—a grey hair here, an age spot there, change so gradual that she did not notice it in herself, never taking the time to observe any one change in particular until, one day, she realized that she had come to look entirely different—and this does not bother her, particularly.  If she cared about any of it, she would have taken more note as it were happening, but it is one thing to recognize signs of aging in oneself, and quite another to see them in one’s lover, particularly when said lover is notably younger than oneself.

When Ana began to notice wrinkles around her own eyes, it did not bother her at all—if anything, she was pleasantly surprised to realize that, despite the Omnic Crisis, and all that followed, she had lived long enough to have any—but it _does_ bother her, shortly upon being reunited, when she sees those same lines around Angela’s eyes.  Were anyone to ask her why, she could not say, because she does not find them unattractive, nor is it particularly surprising that Angela might have a laugh line or two at her age, but there is a nagging worry there, something she cannot quite put a name to which bothers her nonetheless.

That same feeling returns two weeks later, when, while Angela is looking for clothing for some event or another, Ana notices that one of her favorite dresses, memorable if only for how its bright color stands in contrast to the rest of her wardrobe, is conspicuously absent.  In response to Ana’s inquiring as to where it went, Angela just laughs, shrugging off the question by saying that in the past three years or so she went up a size or two, and that she does not mind it much, given her age, thinks it is only to be expected.  There is little reason to press the issue, particularly given that Ana quite likes Angela’s current weight, and does not want to give the impression that she feels otherwise, but still there is that _something_ about the statement _._

Another three weeks go by and Angela is frowning into the mirror at herself, fingers pushing her bangs out of the way so she can more carefully examine the roots of her hair.  While Ana cannot see precisely what her lover is doing, from her place outside the doorway of the bathroom, she has a fairly good idea.

“Staring won’t make the greys go away,” she says, and watches in some amusement as Angela drops her hands quickly, almost guiltily, turning at once to face her.  That amusement fades quickly when she sees the expression on Angela’s face, far from happy.

“Are they that obvious?” she sounds almost resigned as she says it, crossing an arm over herself in a way that Ana knows, by now, means she is nervous as well, “I hoped that maybe they wouldn’t be so obvious, in the blonde, but—”

“They’re not,” Ana reassures her, before she can continue the thought, “I wouldn’t have even brought it up if you didn’t seem so worried about it.”

“Ah,” says Angela, but it doesn’t seem to calm her any, for she bites her lip and turns her gaze away, towards the shower in the corner.  There is a considerable pause before she speaks again—they have known each other long enough, by now, that Ana knows when to push, and when to wait—but speak she does, “I don’t like it,” says she, “Feeling like I’m getting old.  Before you came back I was the oldest woman here, you know.”

Before speaking Ana shifts her weight, rests against the frame of the door, making sure that there is enough room that if Angela wanted to, she _could_ push past, will not feel trapped during the ensuing conversation.  If her lover were to ask, that is her reasoning—not that she needed time to gather her thoughts, to choose carefully what to say next, although that is the truth.  It would be a lie, she knows, to say that Angela is _not_ getting older, because certainly she is nearing middle age, and it would do neither of them any good to pretend otherwise, but that Angela is _older_ than she once was does not make her _old_ , particularly not in Ana’s eyes.  It clicks, then, what has been bothering her: for all that Angela is clearly older, she is still far younger than Ana herself; if Angela is old, what does that make Ana?

“You’re still younger than I was when we met,” says she, and it is true: eighteen years later, and Angela is still five years from the age Ana was then, even though just a few months under half of her life—and less than a third of Ana’s—has passed.

That does not seem to comfort Angela in the slightest, as she is still staring resolutely in the direction of the shower curtain when she speaks next.  “That doesn’t make me young,” she argues, and she is not _wrong_ , necessarily, but certainly she cannot seem old to Ana, who only recently began to think of _herself_ as being old.

“No,” agrees Ana, “It certainly doesn’t.”  Another pause between them, before Ana asks, carefully, “Is that such a bad thing, though?”

The hand Angela does not have pulled across herself now grips the sink so hard her already pale knuckles turn white, “You tell me.”

“I’m sure I can’t know what you mean,” Ana tells her, and tries not to sound too sharp, even if the comment immediately puts her on the defensive.  Outside of the subject of work, of their differing interpretation of what is _right_ and what is _wrong_ , the two of them rarely argue, but on the rare occasion that they do, neither is inclined to mince words.

“What are we doing here, Ana?  Sneaking around, never talking about our relationship in front of anyone, keeping everything a secret the way we always have,” she turns, suddenly, to look Ana in the eye, gaze sharp, “It made sense then—with how young I was, and you being so much older—but now?  I’m not young anymore, Ana.  Why are we still _hiding,_ unless we don’t know what else to be?”

“ _Angela_ ,” she begins more sharply than she wants to, pauses and takes a breath before continuing, “There was a rather stringent anti-fraternization policy then, if you’ve forgotten, and _you_ haven’t made any mention of our relationship since my return, either.  I didn’t know it bothered you.”

Angela opens her mouth as if to object, but Ana is not done, has more to say about the matter, “And your age didn’t have anything to do with my attraction to you—if anything, I was worried I was too old for you.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Angela says, and if she were not so obviously angry it might sound like a plea, “You’ve been strangely quiet every time I’ve mentioned my age since you got back.  Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”  In her anger, she had straightened up, moved forwards, but now she shrinks into herself again, leans back against the sink when Ana, too surprised by the turn of conversation to argue, does not respond quickly enough, “You don’t have to stay, if you don’t find me attractive anymore.”  When she says this, her eyes flick over Ana’s shoulder in the direction of the door.

“I’m not lying,” Ana says, trying not to be annoyed by the accusation, or at least not to _show_ annoyance.  “It’s just… become harder to ignore, recently, how very much older than you I am, and always have been.  If either of us is too old for the other, it isn’t you.”

Angela laughs, then, relaxing at last, and grins at Ana when she says, “I daresay that’s part of your appeal.”

Hearing that should not surprise Ana, really, not with how eager to please Angela has always been, the way she flushes when Ana calls her a _good girl_ , the age of the various celebrities Angela has mentioned finding attractive before, but it _does_ surprise Ana, nonetheless—perhaps because she always avoided thinking about how young Angela was, preferring to focus, instead, on all the ways in which they were equals.

She really does not know what to make of this.

(Whatever allusions Angela might have made in the past

“That’s… interesting,” is what she settles on, after a considerable pause.

“Does it bother you?” Angela asks her, and Ana is surprised to find that it does not.

“No,” says she, without hesitation, but then, “It’s probably something we should discuss, though.”

“Probably,” Angela agrees easily, and then, stepping forwards to close the gap between them, “Later, though.  For now,” she moves a hand upwards, cupping Ana’s jaw and leaning down just slightly so that they are level with one another, “I can show you just how much I appreciate your current age.”

Who is Ana to say no?

In the years prior to their separation, Angela was never interested in taking control, always content to allow Ana to initiate sex and decide the pace; in the ensuing years she has grown bolder, although she has never said why, and Ana has never asked.  Seven years ago, Ana would not have wanted this, to be lead backwards and then pushed down onto the bed, for she had so little control of the rapidly unravelling Overwatch that she felt she needed to take it where she could—but now, older still, and maybe even wiser, if she is lucky, it does not seem like such a bad thing to let Angela take control for a short while.

(There is also the fact that it is easier, these days, for her to not be the _only_ active partner.  She can only kneel or thrust or do whatever else for so long before she grows sore, and needs to change positions, and Angela stepping up and being less passive is certainly beneficial for the both of them, in that regard.)

So she allows Angela to divest her of her clothing, even if she is moving not nearly so quickly as Ana _knows_ she could, nimble surgeon’s fingers pretending to fumble with the fly of Ana’s trousers, and toying with the hem of her shirt.  Ana wants to complain, to urge Angela to just _hurry up_ , to joke that she is not getting any younger, anything if it would make Angela move faster—but she does not know, yet, how far she can push when Angela takes charge, and rather wants to see how their evening will turn out.

Eventually, it seems Angela has had enough with her teasing, and finishes pulling Ana’s clothes from her, kneeling above her on the bed, a knee just outside either hip.  Ana shivers, from the cold and the scrutiny both.  It is one thing to know that she has aged, and to accept it, but quite another to have just discussed it, and to find oneself wholly bare before another person.  When Angela looks at her she will see scars she does not know the origin of, for they have not discussed them since Ana’s return, including a rather grotesque one along her side, a jagged, light depression against the surrounding tissue, will see breasts that never returned to their original firmness after breastfeeding, and have only grown saggier with age, will see an abdomen which was once well muscled and that now, while still strong, does not look so.

(Angela, too, has changed, has more moles in more places than she ever did when she and Ana were first together, and from this angle her weight gain is more visible—even if it is difficult to know which changes in her silhouette are attributable to HRT and which are aging—but Ana is not looking at those things, is watching Angela’s expression as her own body is scrutinized.)

“Beautiful,” she breathes, before bending down to kiss Ana’s neck, one hand moving to cup a breast, and when she says it like that, Ana can believe it.  She lingers, with each kiss, moving slowly downwards towards Ana’s breasts, murmuring gentle praises between each kiss, _stunning, gorgeous, strong,_ and it may have been decades since last Ana last let sweet words sweep her off her feet, but the increase in her heartrate is not purely due to arousal.

 _Perfect_ , Angela tells her before wrapping her mouth around a nipple.  Normally, she would only tease at it, licking it and flicking at it with her tongue, but perhaps emboldened by their earlier conversation, and her admission, this time she sucks at it in earnest, and Ana threads one hand in her hair to encourage her to continue, the other reaching down between the both of them so that she can touch herself.

These days, it takes time for her to be wet enough for a partner to comfortably touch her, and any embarrassment she might once have felt when tending to her own needs during sex has long since faded—and it certainly does not hurt that she knows Angela finds it arousing, a fact which shows as Angela redoubles her efforts at Ana’s breasts.

For several minutes, they are in a holding pattern, nothing escalating between them, and pleasant as it is, Ana finds her patience is beginning to dwindle when suddenly the timing of a particularly hard suck from Angela and her own thumb pressing against her clit coincide, and her hips roll involuntarily, breath hitching in response.

That, finally, is enough to spur Angela into action again, and after a brief—but necessary—pause to fumble around in her bedside drawer in search of lube, continues moving down Ana’s body, _lovely_ whispered into the large pockmark left by shrapnel just below her ribcage, _wonderful_ as Angela’s lips find her cesarean scar, and _mine_ as she moves her hand out of the way and Angela finally, _finally_ reaches her labia.

When she looks down to meet Angela’s eyes, one leg moving to hook over her lover’s shoulder, she does so over the same body which survived the Omnic Crisis, which bore a child, which once was unmarked, unmarred, but thoroughly untested.  Now, despite the shifting geography of her form, new marks and rolls appearing over time, she knows her body better than she did when she was younger, is far more at peace with who she is.  It may be a surprise to look down and see Angela’s face amongst _white_ pubic hair, but her heartbeat still picks up when Angela traces around her clit in little circles, and she still feels that familiar pull of arousal when she feels Angela’s free hand begins to creep up the inside of her thigh.

(There are, of course, some small concessions made for age—that Angela is careful not to move her hips beyond what is now their maximum comfortable flexibility being the most prominent adjustment.  And while once Angela might have dedicated a good deal of time to teasing, she does not do so any longer—it takes Ana longer, now, to come, even with greater stimulation, although those single orgasms are stronger than the multiple ones she might have enjoyed when younger—concentrating immediately on Ana’s clit.)

Years of practice have ensured that Angela knows well what it is that Ana likes, and it is not terribly long before she feels herself beginning to draw close to an orgasm, hips moving in time against her lover’s mouth.  If she were the type to beg, she might say _more,_ or _please_ , or something to that effect, but she has never been the type to ask permission for anything, and _particularly_ not permission to come, when she has always worked at least as hard as her lovers to ensure that she orgasms.

Instead she presses insistently at the back of Angela’s head with one hand, pulling at her hair in the way her lover enjoys, brings her free hand up to her breasts, tenses her thighs in anticipation, holds her breath and—

—Does not come.

A deep breath in, and out, and she tries again to let go, good eye closing this time as she focuses inwards, tries only to _feel_ , not the sweat on her skin or the cold on her nipples—still damp—but the tension of her approaching orgasm, the pressure of Angela’s mouth on her, the warmth and wetness and _pleasure._

She is right there, and she thinks _yes, please yes, I need—_

 _—_ Yet, still, she does not come.

After some thirty seconds, she has to breathe properly again, and she untenses her thighs for a moment as she resists the urge to huff in annoyance; normally, this would be enough, and she still feels like she is there, like she could come at any moment, but for all that she tries the orgasm which is so close eludes her.

Angela must notice something, her frustration or the movement or the way her grip on her lover’s hair tightened and then relaxed because she looks up, for a moment, asking, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Ana is quick to reply, and then, embarrassed, but firm enough that it is a request and absolutely _not_ a question, “I just need a bit more, sometimes, now that I’m older, so…”

“Ah,” Angela says, and then, “I do have a vibrator, if you’d like me to get it out?”

“No,” Ana says perhaps a bit _too_ quickly.  From personal experience, she knows that she is very particular about the settings she likes, and doubts that taking the time to find the right configuration on Angela’s vibrator is worthwhile.  “You don’t actually have to do anything differently, it just might take a bit longer than usual.”

(In truth, the added sensation of something _inside_ her might speed things up quite a bit, but even after transitioning, Angela is not terribly fond of penetrating anyone with anything, and Ana does not want to make her feel as if she needs to do anything—they can discuss it another time, when there is less pressure.)

When Angela begins again, she is more forceful in her movements, focusing more on Ana’s clit, and it is nearly at the point of being too much, of Ana wanting to ask her to slow down or ease up—but she is so, so close.  It is all she can do to stay put, to not pull away from the intensity of the sensation, because she feels again that she is right at the edge, and she does not want to lose the orgasm by twitching away at the wrong moment.

A minute passes, another.  Ana tosses her head and fights the urge to whimper, to beg.

Another minute, and Angela rubs soothing circles on her thigh, nuzzles closer into Ana, reaches her other hand to try and hold Ana’s, the way she likes to when _she_ comes—and nothing about the sensation of it is terribly different, but suddenly Ana is _there_ , tipping over the edge and trying not to buck her hips too hard into Angela’s face.

The unexpectedness of the orgasm makes it feel almost torn from her, and she is surprised by the intensity of it—though perhaps she should not be, given how long she teetered at the edge.  Angela helps her to ride it out, and when she is finished moves up the bed to lie next to her, propping her head up on one elbow and idly stroking the side of her face with the other hand.

After a moment to catch her breath, she turns so she can better look at Angela, who is at her blind side, “Your turn?” she asks, not certain if Angela—still fully clothed—will want to do anything, but more than willing should she prove amenable to the idea.

“Once you’re one recuperating, sure.”

“Recuperating?” Ana demands, and then, teasingly, “Just how old do you think I am?”

“I don’t know,” Angela says with a smirk, “I seem to recall someone saying just earlier today how you were _much_ too old for an only slightly-old person such as myself.  And you _do_ seem rather out of breath.”

Ana clicks her tongue, and rolls on top of Angela without any warning, pinning her to the mattress, “I’ll show you out of breath,” says she, using one hand to move a now compliant Angela’s hands above her head.  She leans in as if to kiss her lover, waiting until Angela’s eyes have drifted shut, face pointing upwards, to release her grip, instead bringing both hands suddenly down to Angela’s sides to tickle her.

The sensation is no doubt dulled by the fact that Angela is still wearing one of her many thick sweaters, but she shrieks nonetheless at the sudden sensation, unable to squirm away, pinned as she is.

Perhaps they are, both of them, growing older, but that hardly means that they need to grow up, nor change in any other way.  They can be happy just as they are.

**Author's Note:**

> this was gonna be mommy kink originally but u are what u eat and im a pussy so... maybe later this wk tho! maybe!! at least i alluded to it lol
> 
> if u love me pls leave a comment
> 
> fic title is from munas if u love me now bc... okay i hate to admit this bc they are a great band or queer women and so i should know them bc im a lesbian but like actually they opened for harry styles the first time i saw him this past tour (of several times...) and like. yeah. it really do be like that sometimes


End file.
